To Kill A Prussian
by rosemoon1999
Summary: When Prussia gets taken behind the Berlin Wall, he must escape this horrorhouse-Or die trying. Better than it sounds, I promise. Just read it. Please. WARNINGS- Sadistic!Evil!Russia, PruCan, language.


**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA OR ANYTHING HETALIA RELATED**

Enjoy. I hate myself for this story.

* * *

They came for him in the darkness, when the moon was just beginning its nightly journey across the ink-black sky. Their numbers were many, too many to count. Some of the countries were willing. Most were not. Who were they?

The Soviet Union.

Russia. Poland. Estonia. Latvia. Lithuania. Belarus. Ukraine. Romania. Hungary.

His doom.

Downstairs, he heard them wrestling his poor, war-torn bruder into submission. Over and over, akin to a broken record, he heard the shouts- "He's not here! I'm telling you, I haven't seen him since May 18th!"

But even he could hear the desperation, the despair in Germany's voice. And if even he, the Awesome Prussia, could hear those telltale emotions echoing up the stairs, then surely those Soviet bastards could too.

The crashing and banging grew to a frenzied volume, increasing in speed. The shouts turned into little more than hysterical screams. The end was near, and both sides knew it.

Prussia flinched at the sudden unmistakeable sound of a handgun going off, silencing the fight. He stared at the opposing wall, shocked. Had... Had they killed his bruder?

A single command sounded, crystal clear in the deafening silence. The voice carried much more than a threat, and was laced with a Russian accent.

"Fan out and find him. I don't care if you harm him, as long as I get him alive.

And still the albino didn't move from his place against the wall, except to slide a dagger out of his right boot. If push came to shove, he was more than ready. He was, after all, born for battle.

He listened to the rhythmic sound of doors being kicked down as the Soviets searched. Something suddenly struck him, and he got up. Stealthily, he crept across the floor, wincing at the creaking floor.

Prussia stopped at his nightstand, slowly, carefully, opening it. Withing the drawer resided an iron cross, similar to his brothers'. But this one differed, for if you pushed a hidden lever, the locket would open.

This is what he did, starting at the soft 'snick'. Was the opening mechanism always that loud? He paused, listening. The Soviets were climbing the stairs, making enough noise to wake Old Man Fritz in his grave.

He looked at the item held in his pale, pale hands, a smile tainted by sadness creeping across his facial features. Two pictures were hidden within the locket. On the left was of his Groenvater Germania, his brother, and himself. The other was of his beloved Canada.

On the family side, his grandfather sat in a chair on the beach, reading a book written in Italian by a fellow called Roman Empire. He and Germany were at the water's edge. The blonde sibling, who called himself Holy Roman Empire in those days, was wrestling to get away from his older bruder, who was dragging him into the pounding surf.

Prussia chuckled at the memory. Germany had been SO mad. For three days after that, anytime Prussia had tried to talk to him resulted in a stinging slap and angry words.

His gaze shifted to Canada's half. He himself had taken the picture when his sweet, soft-spoken angelic Birdie had fallen asleep on his old couch. Sunlight streamed in from a nearby window, illuminating the tips of his blonde hair with a soft glow. His face was arranged in peaceful bliss, mouth slightly open and curved into a small smile.

Prussia's heart warmed. To this day, nobody, not even his Birdie, had seen this picture. To the silver-haired man, this photo captured everything he liked about Canada, from his small smiles to his gentle persona.

The sound of rampaging Soviets brought him roughly back to a very dangerous reality. They were in the neighboring room, and judging from the sound of shattering glass, like someone had punched out the window out of pure frustration, they were pissed.

His heart skipped a beat hearing that. For the first time, it really struck him- He might not come home. Ever since they had renamed him "East Germany" (which he resented) and placed his once-noble country under Soviet control, his people began dying at an alarming rate. As anybody knows, a nation is kept alive by its people. If enough of those people died, well...

Prussia strode to the middle of his room, surveying it for what was possibly the last time. Not a scuff was to be seen on the whitewash walls nor on the hardwood floors. The bedspread, depicting a Prussian Eagle against the German flag, was tucked in, just the way his brother liked it. All his clothes, even his socks, were either in the dirty clothes hamper or put away in a cherry-wood wardrobe. Even the floor rug, checkerboard-ed with red, black, and yellow squares, was in perfect position. Prussia had taken it upon himself to keep his living space as clean as possible, to help de-stress Germany. Even though it went COMPLETELY against his (awesome) nature.

He became aware of the sudden silence. Prussia's heart started pounding, and his head felt fuzzy. Panic blossomed throughout his entire being. He took a deep breath, slowly letting it out. What would Old Man Fritz say if he saw you right now? Pull yourself together! You are The Awesome Prussia. Nothing can stop you! He scolded himself. But he was lying, and knew it.

The silence remained, setting him on edge even more. If there was silence, they were plotting. And since this was the only room in the house the bastards hadn't searched, they knew exactly where he was.

Prussia glanced at the window, thinking. Maybe he could jump, and get away. He could hightail it into the woods and then... And then...

No. That was the coward's way out. He was not a coward and would not hide from fate.

Instead, he held the dagger at ready.

The Awesome Prussia was not going down without a fight.


End file.
